


Pride, standing tall.

by randomcheeses



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Family Drama, Gen, Short Chapters, Various Others - Freeform, meme prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-03-30 13:10:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 5,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3938026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomcheeses/pseuds/randomcheeses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Done for a prompt: What if Solas was unknowingly Inquisitor Lavellan's father?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pride, standing tall.

She had always been told that her father was not Dalish. A flat-ear mage her mother had found attractive. He had stayed but one night with the clan. Her mother had always vaguely alluded to him not being suited to Dalish life as his reason for not staying. Others in the clan might have had a different opinion, but whatever it was, they kept it to themselves out of respect for Ellana’s mother.

Only once, while eavesdropping on a heated discussion between her mother and the Keeper, had Ellana heard the Keeper refer to her father as _that-no-good-flat-eared-liar._ Her mother had retorted that with so much history lost it was entirely possible he wasn’t lying. Then there had been the sound of a slap. That night Ellana had heard her mother crying.

She had stopped asking about her father after that. She contented herself with the fact that at least she knew his name and that it was a good one. _Solas._ Pride, standing tall and bending knee to no one.


	2. Lavellan, of the Dalish

He had known what she was at once. First there was the feeling of her magic as it pushed and pulled against the Anchor, which settled into her palm as if it belonged there. And then there was her aura, the sheer strength of her connection to the Fade had told him what she was the second he saw her.

Another survivor of Arlathan, choosing to blend in with the Dalish. It was sad, really. But he found it hard to blame her too much. He of all people knew how difficult it was to be alone. He also knew that she had absolutely no idea who he was. He had taken pains to conceal his skills and abilities (far beyond the capabilities of modern Thedas’s idea of a ‘powerful mage’). It seemed he had done it too well. She took his ‘self-taught apostate with an interest in the fade’ story completely at face value. Well, either that or she was a magnificent actress.

As the weeks passed, he began to wonder if his assumptions were entirely correct. Her devotion to the Creators and her fierce pride in her Dalish identity seemed . . . too genuine. She was _Elvhen,_ he was sure of _that_ at least. But he began to wonder.

So one night, seated in front of the dying embers of the campfire, with both of them the only souls awake he had asked about her family.

Clan Lavellan, she had said, a name that was vaguely familiar. Then Ellana had laughed and told him of what she called the most peculiar coincidence. Her father had been an apostate named _Solas_. A traveller, who had spent a night with her mother more than two decades ago.

And then as she sat across the fire from him, marvelling at the vagaries of chance, he had remembered.

Waking up after so long. His horror at this awful new world where the People were outcasts and slaves. His moment of weakness. She had been kind, the first sympathetic face in so long. He should not have done it. But she had wanted him as well. Ellora. Of _Clan Lavellan._

_Ellana_ was the right age. The right clan. The right mother.

And so the Dread Wolf looked upon his daughter’s face, her blood-red _vallaslin_ declaring her the property of Falon’din, and vomited into the dying fire.


	3. Varric Tethras, Unwelcome tag-along

Varric groaned inwardly and tried to ignore the daggers that Chuckles and the Herald were glaring at each other. He wasn’t sure what had caused the sudden tenseness between the two elves, but he was damn sure tired of it.

Of course, the two elves had always been a little touchy, with Chuckles not being crazy about the Dalish and Lavellan being, well, a Dalish First. But the two of them had seemed to settle on agree to disagree, with Lavellan avoiding the use of ‘flat ear’ and Solas for his part had kept his criticisms of the Dalish to himself unless Lavellan directly asked for his opinion on something. And even then, Varric could tell the mage was making an effort to phrase himself politely.

But ever since the night that Varric and the Seeker had awoken to the sound of the elder elf emptying his stomach into the campfire there had been thick tension between the two elves. Every time that Solas, with a tone of dry condescension, pointed out something the Dalish had misinterpreted or mistaken, Lavellan responded by being the most Dalish elf to ever be Dalish.

Part of the problem, Varric knew, was that Lavellan was hurt by Chuckles’ sudden bizarre habit of refusing to look her in the face. At least, not when she was talking to him. Varric had caught Solas gazing at her when her attention was elsewhere and the expression on _his_ face had been one of heartbreak, though damned if Varric knew why.

Varric sighed to himself again as Lavellan began to loudly pray to Falon’din for help with smug know-it-alls who weren’t half as clever as they thought. He could see this was not going to be a good day.


	4. Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of the Chantry

Cassandra had had enough. Seven full days of Solas and Lavellan sniping at each other in the most passive aggressive manner possible had taken their toll. She could take no more of it.

The Seeker stalked over to the fire where the two were once again arguing – the subject was some silly detail of Dalish customs – and planted herself directly in front of Solas. “Enough!” she snapped. “This silly arguing between the two of you has disturbed the rest of us for long enough. Solas, you will cease baiting the Herald. Is that clear?”

Before the elven mage could respond, Cassandra turned on Lavellan, who had been grinning victoriously at Cassandra’s outburst. “And you, Herald,” the Seeker continued coldly. “Your behaviour has been equally childish. Those marks on your face declare you an adult, do they not? Or have I been misinformed?”

Lavellan opened her mouth to reply but Cassandra cut her off. “No, do not say anything. I do not want to hear it! There will be no more of this constant sniping. It is beneath you. You are adults. From now on you will both act like it!” With that, the Seeker stamped over to her tent and pulled the flap closed behind her.

There was an awkward silence. Then Solas cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should agree not to discuss anything Dalish or Elven related for a while,” he said carefully. “For the Seeker’s peace of mind.”

Lavellan nodded slowly. “Alright. But from now on you look me in the face when you’re talking to me. Don’t give me that look,” she said before he could protest. “Just don’t do it again.”

“Ma nuvenin,” he agreed finally, and wandered off to find his bedroll.

Lavellan remained by the fire, staring out into the darkness. “Dread wolf’s hairy arse,” she muttered, “Cassandra’s worse than Mamae in a temper.”


	5. Wisdom, Spirit of the Fade

That night the Dread Wolf stalked the fade in a temper, sending sprites and spirits fleeing in his wake.

Ellana’s face, marred by slave markings, flickered in and out of his vision. _Look me in the face_ , she had said and he had agreed. But even now he wasn’t sure that he could.

How could he explain to her that where before her _vallaslin_ had been a mild irritant, now they were an unbearable torture? His only child, wearing marks that declared her the property of a power hungry, blood thirsty tyrant. Being _proud_ of them, even. It made him want to scream with rage.

Instead, he took a breath and sought out the Spirit of Wisdom. He needed her advice, her calm. The world always seemed brighter after they spoke.

He found her in a quiet glade, sitting by a deep pool of water and watching the flickers of motion in its blue depths.

Fen’harel returned Wisdom’s glad greeting and seated himself next to her. For a moment they sat in silence, watching the waters. Then the Dread Wolf spoke to Wisdom of his new-found daughter and how he had missed the first years of her life.

He spoke of how his actions had placed her at the centre of a whirlwind, at the head of an army of the faithful who believed her an agent of the shemlen god. Of how she was so devotedly, aggravatingly _Dalish_. Of how he was sure that she was beginning to hate him.

The gentle spirit waited for Fen’harel to finish and then smiled softly at him. “You cannot change the past, _falon_. Only the present. You have many plans you wish to carry out. Will you present yourself as a father or as a mentor? Do you even wish a relationship with her?”

“Of course I do,” he cried, stung. “She is my child!”

“But not _a_ child,” Wisdom pointed out. She tilted her head quizzically. “You see her as one?”

“Should I not?” Fen’harel retorted. “She has not even three decades. In Arlathan she would not even be halfway through her schooling.”

“And yet, by Dalish reckoning she has been an adult for quite some time.”

The Dread Wolf snorted in disdain. “The Dalish! They are quicklings, cut off from their lives in seventy years or less. _She_ will have centuries! They have no understanding of what was in their midst. They couldn’t even conceive of it.”

“Her mother did.”

He gave the spirit a flat look. “That is not funny. And in any case,” he continued slowly, “Ellora was . . . different. Special.”

“She was kind to you.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “She was.”

Wisdom squeezed his hand comfortingly. “You must do as you think best, _falon._ You can do no less.”


	6. Sera, of the Red Jennies

Lavellan was elfy. Very elfy.

 

Still. She had the mark thingy. She glowed. That was the important thing, right? And she wasn’t up herself too much. She liked gettin’ up the nobles noses. When she wasn’t talking about elfy stuff, she was nearly okay.

 

 _Solas,_ on the other hand. Totally up himself. Head crammed up a thousand years ago. _Way_ too elfy. Except, weird, because Lavellan was elfy too. And they didn’t get along. All tense. Seemed Lavellan was the wrong sort of elfy. In baldy’s opinion.

 

Well. Sera didn’t care what he thought. When she wasn’t being too elfy or too magey, Lavellan was fun.

 

Cassandra was too serious. Good for hiding behind in a fight though. Tough.

 

Varric. Too clever. Way too clever.

 

Solas, though. Really annoying. Just when she’d got Lavellan to loosen up and have fun and stop being so elfy, along would come Solas. All snippy and disapproving. Arse.

 

Sera was going to leave beetles in his bedroll. Teach him not come round and spoil their fun. Acting like Lavellan should pay attention when he talked. Like he was her dad or something.

 

Weirdy, magicy arse.

 

Still, though.

 

They did look a bit alike. Same eyes. Same shape of the face. Maybe?

 

Noooo. Definitely not. That’d be too weird.

 

Stupid Sol-arse.

 

Maybe lizards instead of beetles.

 

Yeah.


	7. Iron Bull, of the Chargers/Hissrad, of the Ben Hassrath

“Dorian’s magic is flashy. He casts every spell like he’s waiting for applause. Even Viv has this confident little swagger. Like she knows she’s the most dangerous thing in the room.”

“That’s because I _am,_ my dear.”

“Not you though,” Bull continued, once the First Enchanter had moved ahead to walk with Lavellan. “Not the quiet elven mage. Most of our targets never see you coming.”

“Thank you,” Solas replied calmly. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

“If you like. Of course,” Bull added casually, “there _are_ times when your attacks are downright vicious. Whenever the Boss is in serious trouble, for example.”

“We will _all_ be in trouble if we lose the Herald, will we not?”

“Oh sure,” Bull agreed cheerfully. “But I’m guessing it has more to do with Daddy not wanting his baby girl to get hurt.” He grinned down Solas’ suddenly frozen expression. “ _Ben –Hassrath,_ remember? We notice things, you know. The colour of someone’s eyes, the line of their jaw, the way they look when they smile. All the little similarities. Not to mention how _very_ protective you are of someone you don’t get along with. Don’t like the eyes she’s making at the warden at _all,_ do you?”

“Perhaps it would be better for everyone if you did not notice quite so much,” Solas replied after a long moment of silence.

“Mm hm. She doesn’t know, does she? When are you going to tell her?”

“I am not. And neither are you.”

“Hey, hey,” Bull said, holding up his hands placatingly, “don’t worry about me. This is all between you and her. Qunari don’t get in the middle of family things. We’re known for it.”

“Good. Because if you were to get careless, you might find yourself having extremely unpleasant dreams from now on. Understood?”


	8. Blackwall, of the Grey Wardens

There were _lizards_ in his bedroll. _Lizards._

Solas shook out the bedroll firmly, watching as the small scaly creatures dropped from the folds and scuttled away. As he laid it back down, he caught sight of a small piece of parchment which had been pinned to the underside of the bedroll. The words ‘MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS, BALDY’ were scrawled on it, along with a crude drawing of a butt.

He sighed and wandered across the camp. He was about to drop Sera’s missive into the fire when the sound of Ellana’s giggling, followed by a hearty laugh from Blackwall met his ears.

Solas growled under his breath. _So glad to provide everyone with entertainment,_ he thought, a touch bitterly, and raised his head to give them both a withering look.

They were not looking at him. In fact he was willing to bet they hadn’t noticed his encounter with Sera’s lizards at all. Instead, they were smiling at each other as they talked, completely absorbed in their conversation. Ellana said something that Solas could not quite hear, and once again Blackwall let out a loud shout of laughter. Ellana’s ensuing delighted grin made Solas want to grind his teeth.

He did _not_ like the way they were looking at each other. A human almost twice her age and destined to die fighting darkspawn in the deep roads was _not_ a proper partner for a young _Elvhen_ lady. Someone ought to point out to the warden, at the earliest possible opportunity, that Blackwall should not raise expectations in Ellana’s mind that were impossible for him to fulfil.


	9. Madame Vivienne de Fer - First Enchanter

Never in a thousand years would Solas have expected to agree so whole-heartedly with the First Enchanter on any given subject. And yet . . .

“All I’m suggesting my dear, is that Warden Blackwall – as worthy as he is, as indeed _any_ Grey Warden is - is perhaps not the best choice of, shall we say, _intimate_ companion.”

“I like him,” Ellana replied simply. Her expression was calm and untroubled, but her white-knuckled grip on her staff hinted that she resented the First Enchanter’s ‘suggestion’.

“I have no doubt, my dear,” Vivienne said with what Solas considered to be an offensively indulgent smile. “But the unfortunate truth is that for someone of rank – especially someone of your unique station – there are other considerations to be thought of. Alas, it is the way of the world.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Ellana retorted stubbornly. “And I like him. That’s all that matters. Besides” she added innocently, “are you saying you wouldn’t have loved your Bastien if he hadn’t been a Duke?”

Seeing the First Enchanter momentarily taken aback, Solas internally applauded despite himself. _Well done, Ma’len! A worthy strike._

But Vivienne had not earned the name Madame de Fer for nothing, and she recovered quickly. “My dear,” she said, with an apparently sincere little laugh, “If Bastien had not been a Duke, I would never have met him in the first place. Now, I fully realise that Ser Blackwall’s rough chivalry has its attractions, but I assure you that there are plenty of men – or indeed women,” Vivienne added judiciously, “who are infinitely more suited to the Herald of Andraste. Why I’m sure that even our resident apostate here would agree with me,” she finished confidently.

Fen’harel suddenly found himself the focus of his daughter’s questioning gaze. “No, he wouldn’t,” Ellana declared defiantly. “Right, Solas?”

The Dread Wolf thought of Warden Blackwall. He thought of how utterly unsuitable the aging shemlen warrior was for his only daughter, the precious child he’d never expected to have. He looked into Ellana’s face, the hopeful expression on it marred by Falon’din’s vallaslin. She was actually smiling at him.

His stomach sank.

“My dear,” Vivienne began, “of course he does. _Anyone_ with sense can see-”

“You are mistaken, First Enchanter,” he interrupted sharply, cursing the Circle mage for forcing him into taking this position. “If the Herald and Warden Blackwall find comfort in companionship with each other, then it is no one’s business but theirs.”

Ellana beamed at him. “Ma serannas Hahren,” she said happily. “And on that note, I declare this conversation over. My personal life is _no one’s_ business.”

Vivienne sighed in disappointment. “As you wish, my dear. I only hope you do not come to regret your choices.”


	10. Dorian, of House Pavus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoops!

_As if travelling through time a year into a horrible future wasn’t enough_ , Dorian Pavus thought.

“Servis?” Dorian asked in disbelief. “As in Crassius Servis? That weasel? In charge? What’s he doing here? Where’s Alexius?”

“Dead,” said Leliana flatly. “He was killed before the Herald’s companions were over-powered.”

“What?! How?” Dorian demanded.

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me!” Dorian snapped.

“Solas,” the spymaster replied after a moment. For an instant her lips twisted bitterly. “From what reports I could gather before everything went to the void, when you and the Herald vanished Solas went mad. He tore Alexius to shreds and then levelled half the castle before they brought him down.”

Dorian blinked, recalling the quiet elven mage following at Lavellan’s heel. He hadn’t seemed the type to go on a rampage.

“That seems . . . excessive,” he said to Lavellan, trying to ignore the pain he felt at the thought of his mentor’s death. “I hadn’t thought you two were particularly close?”

“We weren’t,” Lavellan answered, a troubled expression on her face. “Not really. Why would he-” She stopped and turned to the other survivor they’d found. “Blackwall, where is Solas? Is he here?”

“No.” the Warden replied. “They could not bring him down alive, my Lady.”

Lavellan ground her teeth. “Right,” she said harshly. “Let’s just find Servis, grab that amulet and get out of here. I’m really beginning to hate this place.”

“You?” the wizened-faced spymaster hissed bitterly, “How do you think _we_ feel?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _“Ma’len! Ma da’len!”_ a man’s voice screamed. “ _Ma asha’len din! Din Shemlen!”_

When the blinding light of the time-travel spell cleared, Dorian gulped in dismay. It seemed as though Leliana had been correct. The elven mage had indeed gone mad. Solas stood on the centre of the throne room’s raised dais, his body outlined in bright glowing blue. His face was contorted with rage and pain. In one hand he held Alexius – still so far alive, but looking much the worse for wear – by the throat. The magister’s feet dangled in the air and a tiny part of Dorian’s mind marvelled at the elf’s impressive and surprising display of strength. Around the room, various Venatori lay on the floor, groaning in pain. Dorian guessed they’d been hurled against the walls and pillars in the room with considerable force.

The pale corona of mana around Solas’s hand brightened to painful intensity. Dorian could feel the sheer volume of mana the elf was pulling through the weakened Veil and knew that – as Leliana had told them – Alexius was about to be torn apart.

“Solas!” Lavellan called before Dorian could speak. “Put him down!”

The Veil itself trembled around them and then the glow around Solas’ hand faded. He turned his head to face Lavellan and Dorian heard the Herald let out a small gasp. Clearly she had not expected the sudden flow of tears that were pouring down the elder elf’s face.

“ _Ma’len?”_ the elf said slowly, as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. “ _Ellana_?”

She nodded carefully at him. “It’s me. Are you alright, Hahren? You’ve made quite a mess.”

There was a thud as Alexius was unceremoniously dropped to the ground. “I . . .” Solas began falteringly in common. He looked around the room at the battered Venatori. “I thought you were dead.”

A second later, a few strides had brought him next to Lavellan and he cupped her chin in one hand, his other once again glowing with mana, but with the tell-tale whiff of healing magic. “ _Ma da’len_? Are you injured?” he asked, a tremor in his voice. “What happened to you?”

“Ma da’len?” Lavellan echoed in surprise. Then she froze, looking up into his tear-stained face. Her eyes widened as, for the first time, she really looked at his features. To Dorian, the look on her face was that of someone putting together the pieces of a hitherto unnoticed puzzle.

“ _Papae?”_ Lavellan breathed in shock. “ _Ma Papae?”_

For a moment Solas’ mouth worked soundlessly, as he tried to work out what to say. And then, whatever he had been going to say, he abandoned. Dorian watched as the tension drained out of the elven mage’s body and instead of speaking, he simply nodded once.

The moment ended as the noise of a commotion near the doors reached them and they all heard Ferelden-accented man’s voice demand to know what was going on.

“I believe that is King Alistair,” Solas said quietly, his calm apparently recovered, though Dorian noticed that the hand that had been around Alexius’ neck still shook slightly. He let go of Lavellan’s chin and stepped back. “You had best discuss with him what you mean to do with the mages.”

Lavellan blinked. “Oh. Yes. But . . .”

“We will have plenty of time to talk once we return to Haven, _ma’len_ ,” Solas said, smiling gently at her. “Go now. Talk with the Fereldan king. I believe you will find him a reasonable man.”

“Right, but later . . .”

“Later, we will talk. I promise.”

“So,” Dorian said conversationally as he joined Lavellan to greet the Fereldan monarch. “You didn’t mention he was your father.”

Lavellan smiled crookedly at him, an odd look in her eyes. “That’s because I didn’t know.”


	11. Mahanon, of Clan Lavellan

Solas was sitting in front of the hearth in the small house Sister Nightingale had assigned to him, mentally going over the plans to close the Breach. _With the addition of_ _Grand Enchanter Fiona’s mages,_ he thought, _we should have enough-_

 

The door smacked open, the sudden gust of cold wind almost blowing out the small fire and Ellana stalked in, frustration written all over her face. Most likely, he thought, she had been having another argument with the Inquisition’s trio of not-quite-leaders.

 

He got up, closed the door against the wind with some difficulty and then turned to face his daughter. She frowned at him for a moment but said nothing. He raised an eyebrow and gave her an enquiring look.

 

After a moment she said, “Just because you’re my _Papae_ , it doesn’t mean I have to like you.”

 

“Of course not,” he agreed affably, smiling at her.

 

Ellana appeared wrong-footed by this cordial answer. “I don’t see why you got so upset at Redcliffe,” she said after a moment, in an irritated tone. “You barely know me. And what you do know of me, you don’t like.”

 

“Not so _ma’len,_ ” Solas disagreed. “I think you have many admirable qualities.”

 

Ellana glared at him. “Just last week,” she reminded him acerbically, “you called my entire people ‘a lot of children digging in the dirt for broken pieces of half remembered fairy-tales’.”

 

“If I recall correctly,” Solas replied, “you dismissed the possibility that any but the Dalish had anything edifying to say of Elvhen culture.”

 

Ellana ignored this and narrowed her eyes at him. “How can I be sure you’re really my _Papae_ anyway? You have the same name and we look a bit alike, but _Mamae_ described him as a man in his early forties and that was twenty-two years ago.”

 

Solas shrugged. “I am well preserved. A consequence of spending so much time in the Fade.”

 

“What?” Ellana said, confused.

 

“The main similarity between the way the Circles of Magi and the Dalish Keepers train their students,” Solas said, a lecturing tone creeping into his voice, “is the fact that they discourage the study of the Fade and so discourage their students from spending any more time there than is absolutely necessary. If they did not do so they would have discovered that regular contact with the fade has a beneficial effect on a mage’s constitution.” It _was_ true, he reflected silently, as Ellana digested his words. Not the exact reason he was so ‘well preserved’ of course, but true nonetheless. “I am more than old enough to be your father, _da’len,_ ” he finished.

 

Ellana was still looking at him a little suspiciously. He sighed. “Your mother’s name is Ellora. She wears Ghilan’nain’s _vallaslin_ and is chiefly responsible for the care of your clan’s halla. Her brother’s name is Soren. He wears the _vallaslin_ of June and is a talented worker of Ironbark. Your Keeper is Deshanna Istmaethoriel Lavellan and if she has referred to me at any time in the past two decades, it is likely she did so as ‘that no-good flat-eared liar’.

 

He looked at Ellana. “Well, _ma’len?_ Have I left anything out?”

 

“No,” she admitted slowly. “But there is something you don’t know.”

 

“Oh yes?”

 

“I . . .” Ellana began hesitantly. “I have a younger brother. His name is Mahanon.” She looked at Solas in a worried, expectant manner.

 

Solas smiled indulgently at her. “ _Ma’len,_ I shared a single enjoyable night with your mother over two decades ago. I am not, nor indeed do I have any right, to be jealous that she moved on with her life. I am glad of it and hope that she and your brother’s father are happy together. I-”

 

“Solas,” Ellana interrupted before he could say anymore. “You don’t understand. Mahanon is my twin.”

 

"Twin?" Solas repeated, momentarily stupefied. "You are a twin?" His brain finally caught up with his ears. "I have a _son?"_

 

Ellana smiled weakly at him. "Congratulations?"


	12. Cole, Spirit of Compassion

“ _Can’t see anything in all this snow. Can’t feel the anchor! Why?! What has happened to her? I should never have left her there! I should have stayed, should have protected her. Will we even find her body? How will I face Mahanon? How will I face my son with my daughter’s blood on my hands-”_

“Please,” he interrupted the spirit-boy, not even turning to look at him. His eyes traced the snow covered trees all around them, searching for any trace of her. “Stop. I know you want to help, but that doesn’t. It doesn’t.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then the spirit began to whisper. He didn’t try to quiet it again. This was its nature after all, was it not?

Despite trying not to listen, his keen hearing caught a snatch of its whispering and he froze, listening hard.

“ _Mamae, I’m so cold,”_ the spirit whispered forlornly. _“It’s dark and my hand hurts. Stupid magic anchor. Stupid darkspawn monster thing. Chest hurts, think my ribs are broken. What about the others, are they safe? Got to keep moving. It’s so cold. Mamae, Mahanon, I don’t want to die. I want to see you again. I want to be there when you meet Solas-Papae, Mahanon. I don’t want to die alone.”_

That was enough. Solas spun around to face the spirit-made-flesh. “How” he demanded. “How can you hear her? She can’t possibly be close enough. I would sense the anchor!”

The spirit tilted its head to one side. “She’s bound to you. Her pain touches yours. Bound by blood and magic, but not blood magic. Blood magic writing binds her to the friend of the dead. But not your friend. She calls upon him. _Falon’din give me strength._ ”

Solas’ heart twisted painfully in his chest. Of course she would pray to her patron for deliverance. Of course she would call upon someone who could never hear her and would not care about her if he could. Of course she-

He paused, a small kernel of an idea occurring to him. “Cole,” he asked slowly, trying to keep sudden hope out of his voice. “If you can feel Ellana through me, can you tell me where she is?”

Cole blinked and regarded him gravely for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’ve never done that before. I can try.”

“Please,” the Dread Wolf begged. “Please help me find her.”


	13. Commander Cullen, of the Inquisition

The fog was getting thicker and it was starting to snow. A nasty little voice in Cullen’s head was pointing out that the likelihood of finding Lavellan alive – or at all – was dwindling by the second. Still, he and Seeker Pentaghast followed Solas as the apostate elf hurried through the snow covered trees. They kept up with him with some difficulty, their armour and heavy cloaks dragging in the snow.

 

Cullen couldn’t help wonder if Solas used magic to keep his bare toes warm.

 

They’d set out minutes after Solas had informed them that he could sense the power of the Herald’s Mark somewhere close. Vivienne had scoffed and told him not to be ridiculous, that if she, an accredited Circle Enchanter could not sense it – But Cassandra had cut her off, snapping that it was worth a try.

 

Cullen suspected that the Seeker, like himself, was just grateful for the chance to feel like she was doing something useful. He pitied Warden Blackwall, who had vociferously protested at being excluded from the impromptu search party, but the man had taken a Red Templars arrow to the shoulder while covering the retreat of civilians from Haven and was in no fit state to do anything but grumble at the Healers.

 

Still, as they moved onwards, Cullen couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was someone else nearby, just at the edges of his vision. For a just moment he thought he saw the boy who’d warned them at Haven.

 

The wind started to pick up, the snow falling more thickly, covering the tracks the trio of searchers had made. Cullen felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. How could they possibly find the Herald in this?

 

Then, as if the Maker himself had heard him, he saw it. It was barely there, just the tiniest suggestion of green light blinking in the heavy fog. Forcing his muscles to keep going, Cullen ran after Solas as the apostate suddenly accelerated through the trees. A moment later Solas fell to his knees near a dark shape that was slumped over in the snow.

 

Cullen’s legs ached in protest as he ran, promising retribution for this harsh treatment later. When he reached Solas he ripped off his heavy cloak and passed it quickly to the mage. Then he doubled over, catching his breath and watching as the elf wrapped the thick fur-lined cloak around Lavellan’s still form.

 

At last, Cassandra’s voice broke the silence.

 

“Does- does she still live?”

 

“Yes,” Solas answered shakily, his tone filled with overwhelmed relief. He turned to Cullen. “Commander? Your assistance please?”

 

Guessing what Solas meant to ask, Cullen leaned down and picked Lavellan up. He cradled her awkwardly in his arms as Solas held a glowing hand to the woman’s brow.

 

A moment later, Lavellan’s eyes opened and she blinked up at him.

 

“ _Shemlen?”_ she whispered, her gaze vacant and confused.

 

“It’s alright, Lavellan,” Cullen replied gently. “We’ve found you. You’re safe now.”

 

Lavellan let out a tiny whimper and closed her eyes. They waited for a moment, but she made no further movement.

 

As they made their way back to the camp, Cullen prayed that for once in his life, things would go right.


	14. Skyhold

A castle.

 

He has given her a castle.

 

It is, coincidentally, her birthday.

 

Years of feeling jealous of the other children in the clan, because they have fathers and she and her brother did not, come back to her in a rush.

 

She remembers how much she resented the gifts her friends’ fathers gave them. Little dolls, colourful hair ribbons, a new bow or dagger as they got older.

 

She had tried to focus on being happy for her friends. But it had been very hard. Especially on her own birthday.

 

Well. She has a _Papae_ now, and he has given her a castle. A whole castle. She cannot help just a _little_ gloating. This is so much better than hair ribbons.

 

A tiny childish part of her wants to ask Solas if it is all hers, or does she have to share it with Mahanon?

 

So she does, in a joking way. And the tiny childish part of her is very pleased when Solas laughs and assures her that _Tarasyl’an Te’las_ is indeed all hers.

 

“Although,” he adds “I suppose I shall have to look about me for a fortress for Mahanon as well. I should not play favourites after all.”


End file.
